


Crossing the Line

by BiscuitsForPotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Awkward Harry Potter, Best Friends, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Harry Potter, Oral Sex, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Roommates, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21577741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiscuitsForPotter/pseuds/BiscuitsForPotter
Summary: Harry loves his life. Sure, work as an Auror is hard but he has his best friend by his side as his flat mate. And Hermione is the ideal flat mate - thoughtful, kind, and she has good taste in movies to boot. But when Harry is suddenly confronted with a new perspective concerning his best friend, he is tempted to cross a line he never dared to touch before. Written for Harmony & Co.'s Lyric Llama.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 570
Collections: Lyric Llama





	Crossing the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the lyrics presented to me by the admins at Harmony & Co.:
> 
> "I'm in love with the shape of you  
Push and pull like a magnet do.  
Though my heart is falling, too  
I'm in love with your body.  
Last night you were in my room  
Now my bedsheets smell like you,"  
-Ed Sheeran, Shape of You
> 
> Much love to incredible MsMerlin who helped shape this fic into what you see now!

Harry’s eyes peeled open to reveal a blurry bedroom covered in late-morning sun. He stretched, feeling his back crack in several places before inhaling deeply through his nose. As he lay in bed, he was met by the strong smell of something wonderful that reminded him of many happy mornings at Hogwarts. He rubbed his eyes before groping his bedside table in search of his glasses.

Harry blinked after sliding them on, and when his vision cleared, he smiled at what he saw. Breakfast. A whole plate of it. Eggs, sausages, tomatoes, a pile of beans, and a lovely mug of coffee with cream.

“Wow, Hermione. Thanks,” he whispered to the air as he sat up. His flatmate was, of course, not in his room. It was _his _room, and they seldom crossed that line, even after years of friendship. Her room was down the hall, and she was no doubt already buried in some novel or other.

It was Saturday, and they both deserved to relax.

Harry, who was fresh off an excruciatingly long week of patrol duty with the DMLE, had dragged himself through the front door at half-past two this morning. He only held vague memories of kicking off his dragonhide boots and shrugging his dark patrol robes onto the floor of the foyer. Frankly, he wasn’t even sure how he managed to get up the stairs and into his bedroom. It was all a blur until this exact moment, when he was waking up in his soft, warm king-sized bed.

Harry pulled the breakfast tray onto his lap and dug in. He nearly moaned with every bite. This was exactly what he needed after the shite week he had.

Patrol week for Aurors consisted of nothing but miserable all-nighters and ridiculous amounts of paperwork. To make matters worse, it poured down buckets of rain every day and night this week. Even impervious charms hadn’t quite done the trick of keeping him dry. All his patrols left him soaked to the bone, to the point where he had received a lecture from his flatmate whenever he came home for a quick kip and a bite before turning right around and heading back out again.

He and Hermione had been living together for nearly six months now. They had stumbled into the situation by pure coincidence or, as Hermione liked to call it, ‘_sheer dumb luck’._

Six months ago, if Harry would have been asked what he pictured his life looking like in November, his answer definitely wouldn’t have included sharing his living space with his best friend. At the time, he probably would have said something about finally getting around to proposing to Ginny.

Ironically, that was quite the opposite of what had happened.

Ginny had been offered a Quidditch contract with an internationally-touring team, the British Fighting Kelpies. Which meant, she would have been gone nearly four months at a time. And while that in itself wasn't ideal, to add insult to injury, the news of her new contract was accompanied by her admission that she just ‘_wasn't feeling it anymore_'.

Within a week, he had all his possessions packed up from their shared flat. He had expected to find a tiny flat near to the Ministry and become a full-on bachelor, but fate, as it turned out, was both convenient and a bitch.

Hermione had never gone into the details, and frankly, Harry didn’t really want to hear them. All he knew about her break up with Ron was that she caught him cheating. She turned up on his front stoop—well… what had been his and Ginny’s, late Wednesday night after he and Ginny broke up, sobbing and without a voice. He could only assume that she screamed until she was hoarse. He spent the whole night rubbing her back on the sitting room couch as she cried into one of their—no, Ginny’s—burgundy throw pillows.

Hermione moved out of the flat she shared with Ron the very next day.

That same day, the two newly-single best friends came to the conclusion over sleepy cups of coffee that perhaps—just perhaps, it would be a frugal decision to move in together.

Harry would never admit it out loud, but he was glad that Hermione had suggested becoming flatmates. More than an issue of galleons, he just didn’t want to live alone. After years of living amongst other people in dormitories, tents, or flats, living alone would feel far too much like a return to the smallest bedroom or worse, the cupboard.

Nearly six months on, their arrangement proved to be an excellent one. Both of them had demanding careers, and so much of their free time was spent lounging around together. In fact, one of their very first joint purchases had been a telly. Neither Ron nor Ginny had particularly understood the Muggle device, but there were no explanations needed when Hermione asked him to pass the remote.

Hermione had surprisingly cheesy taste in movies. Harry would have guessed her to be a documentary sort, but it turned out that rom coms were much more her speed.

“After a long day dealing with the minutiae of wizarding policy, I really don’t think I could bear to stuff any more details in my head,” she had explained away when Harry expressed his surprise.

“You don’t have to justify yourself, Hermione,” he said, chuckling over a container of chinese takeaway. “If you want to watch Bridget Jones’ Diary, I won’t object.”

That quickly became their routine: Come home exhausted —always with takeaway in hand, pop a DVD into their other splurge purchase, a DVD player, and cuddle on the couch until they got sleepy. Harry, for one, really liked this new way of living. Hermione was around far more than Ginny had ever been. It was nice to have someone to come home to at the end of the day. Hermione always greeted him at the door with one of her dazzling smiles. She doted on him. She always fetched him a pint if she was getting one; on really bad days, she ran him baths and procured bruise salves and essence of dittany, even without him having to ask.

Frankly, it was the closest thing to home he had ever felt since leaving Hogwarts.

He knew that their arrangement garnered more questions than answers from others. Especially Ron, who had interrogated him for nearly an hour after he found out the news. Harry knew exactly what they looked like from the outside. No one ever seemed to believe him when he repeated—again and again— that they were _just_ friends. That they were platonic. That they had separate bedrooms. He knew that Hermione got just as much shite for their arrangement as he did, if not more. And he felt guilty about it, but despite his insistence that what was between them was nothing more than friendship, he still found himself admiring her on those quiet nights in front of the telly. But it was nothing anyone should concern themselves over. After all, they were _just friends._

Today, a lazy Saturday, had been a perfect example of the lovely life they were leading. After waking up to the English breakfast on a tray by his bedside, he indulged in a luxuriously long shower. Most of this week, he had only been able to _Scourgify_ his hair and cast _Tergeo_ to siphon the water from his Auror robes. But now, finally, he stood under the hot spray of water and felt all the tightness in his muscles disappear. Twenty-five blessed minutes in, Hermione interrupted him with an urgent knock.

“Harry, you’re taking forever!” she called from out in the hall. “You better not be wanking in there.”

Harry felt the heat rise in his cheeks at the accusation from his best friend. He shuddered.

“I’ll be done soon.”

A couple more minutes passed, and the frantic knocking returned.

“I swear to you, Harry Potter, I’ll magic this door down if you don’t finish right away,” she threatened. Harry quickly finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair as he heard the handle start to jiggle. He cursed under his breath. She meant it; she really would come bursting in here in a second if he didn’t concede.

“All right, all right,” he growled, turning the knob above the faucet. Stepping onto the soft, blue shower mat, Harry blindly reached for his towel before situating it low over his hips.

“Come on in,” he called as he reached for his fogged-up glasses.

Hermione practically dived into the room. A rush of cold air greeted him, and his entire body erupted in goose pimples.

“Oi!” he shouted. “Come on, Hermione. It’s freezing out there. Shut the door, will you?”

“Oh, whatever, you’ll survive.”

It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look to anyone who wasn’t the two of them. Two friends living together, teasing each other wearing only towels. He could definitely understand how some people mistook them for a couple. Hell, every once in a while even he forgot they weren’t. They pressed kisses into each other’s cheeks on their way out of the door in the morning. They spent their evenings cuddled together on the sitting room couch. And apparently, considering their current proximity and near-nakedness, they had no boundaries.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the no-boundaries thing, but Hermione seemed perfectly comfortable with it. He could no longer count the number of times he’d seen her sleepily wandering around the house in an over-large shirt, knickers, and fuzzy socks. And while he had sworn to himself long ago that Hermione was his best friend and would remain just that—his friend, sometimes she made it hard to ignore some of her better assets.

Like right now.

He had seen Hermione in a towel before. They had lived in a bloody tent together for months. But back then, they had been stressed and starving. Any exposed flesh had been sunken in and pallid. Not only that, but they had other, more pressing things on their mind then. But now… the Hermione that stood before him that morning was anything but starved and distracted. Her skin seemed to shine, even under the fluorescent lighting in their bathroom. Her honey-coloured hair fell in waves over her bare shoulders and… Harry gulped. Her towel was tucked under her arms, but not quite so high that he didn’t get a glimpse at certain other bits of her.

Well, not her _bits_, per se, but—

Ugh. Harry stopped those thoughts right in their tracks. This was _Hermione_, after all. His best friend. His flatmate. Ogling her the curve of her breasts was not something he had remote permission to do. He decided to shift his gaze to just past her left ear instead.

Until he realised that she was doing the exact same thing as him. Hermione was clearly drinking him in, her eyes wide and her teeth chewing on her bottom lip as her gaze raked over his chest, down, down...

Harry was caught between self-consciousness and pride.

The two of them stood in the bathroom, facing each other in the enclosed, steamy space. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Neither of them moved a muscle. Harry swallowed.

A strange chill slid up his spine as those familiar chocolate eyes bore into him with a kind of intensity he had never seen in them before. What was running through Hermione’s mind right now? He felt the sudden need to know, coupled with a blossom of desire to see just how soft and supple her skin really was.

He was half-tempted to say something, to reach out and touch her to pull her out of her reverie.

But no. This was Hermione. His best friend. His flatmate. Their arrangement was working so well and he couldn’t muck it up like this. He shook himself mentally.

Plastering a smile on his face, Harry decided to act as if she wasn't standing before him in just a bloody bath-towel—with not a shred of clothing underneath.

“I’m sorry,” he said with an innocent smirk. “Did you need the loo?”

“Of course I bloody need the loo. And I’d like to get at least part of a shower in before all the hot water is gone.”

Harry shrugged, and said the one thing he knew would set her off. “Just use your wand.”

“My wand?” she shrieked. “My _wand?_ Harry, you know as well as I that we’re not to go messing with Muggle plumbing. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Probably about twenty more.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Hermione rolled her eyes before pushing him out of the way. As her cold hand touched his bare torso Harry jumped. He was just about to tell her off when he realized that the innocent touch had gone straight to his rapidly swelling cock.

No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen when Hermione touched him. Shite!

Before Hermione could get another word in, Harry tore off out of the bathroom and down the hall toward his bedroom. “It’s all yours!” he shouted in a panicked voice before slamming his door shut. Breathing heavily, he let his towel fall to the floor. His eyes followed downward.

As expected, he was now sporting a semi.

For Hermione.

_Shite!_

This wasn’t the way this was supposed to go.

Hermione was his friend. His flatmate. He repeated these words to himself again.

And yes, she was a girl—

_A woman,_ a small voice inside his head interjected. _Hermione’s a woman, not a girl. _

Harry shook his head, flinging bits of water off the ends of his hair. Hermione was a woman, yes, but she was strictly off-limits as his best friend. She had to be, right?

Steadying his breath, Harry tried to think of something—anything— to make his erection go away. Quidditch, laundry, even his upcoming patrol. In the end, he found success in thinking about that dull stack of paperwork that awaited him come Monday morning.

Thankfully, those awkward five minutes in the loo remained the most eventful for their lazy Saturday. The rest of it was spent sitting on the couch beside Hermione, both of them sporting loose-fitting loungewear and eating crisps as they watched the complete Lord of the Rings trilogy. It wasn’t their first time watching the trilogy, but Harry was completely captivated, as usual. They sat with their heads on opposite ends of the couch, their bare feet intertwined.

Neither of them had mentioned their morning encounter and it seemed as though that was the way it would be. Harry was glad for that. If he was being honest, It felt a bit like Pandora’s Box. It wasn’t as though he was completely against talking about his newly-found attraction to Hermione, but Merlin knew where that conversation would lead. And he really didn’t want to find out.

Just after Eowyn killed the head of the Nazgul, Hermione let out a deep sigh. Harry blinked, pulling his attention away from the movie. “What’s going on? Did you not enjoy Eowyn stabbing the king, then?”

Hermione threw a crisp at his face. “You know as well as I do that it’s one of my favorite parts of the whole story.”

“Then what’s with the sighing?”

As if to prove a point, she sighed again. “It’s just… Harry—” she paused for a moment and licked her lips. “Do you… do you think we’re boring?”

Harry couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from his throat. “Oh god, what an accusation from Hermione Granger. Better not let the _Daily Prophet_ find out our big secret.”

Hermione kicked his shin. “I’m serious!” she whinged. “It feels like all I’ve done these last few months is go to work and sit on the couch with you.”

“And there’s something wrong with that because…?”

“Well, because we’re in our mid-twenties! Aren’t we supposed to be out doing fun and interesting things?”

Harry sat up, leaning on his elbows to get a better look at his very distressed best friend. “Hermione, I’d say we’ve had more than enough interesting things going on in our lives to last a lifetime. I’m pretty damn happy to just take it easy for a bit, yeah?”

“But that’s the thing, Harry,” Hermione continued. “We’ve been taking it easy. And it was really nice at first. But now we’re in a rut.”

“Rut?” said Harry. “What rut? I’m not in a rut. I quite enjoy our movie nights.”

Hermione’s eyes bored into his. “Come on, Harry. Let’s do something crazy. Completely different. I want to...oh, I dunno. Go out and do something—with you.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “What sort of _something _do you have in mind?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes for a moment as she thought. Then, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head, she got a mischievous look on her face. “Club?”

A club? Hermione Granger, bookworm extraordinaire wanted to go to a _club?_

“That doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, Hermione. I’m not going to lie.”

“Well how do you know it’s not my cup of tea? I’ve never been to one before. Have you?”

“Well, I went to one near Diagon Alley with Ginny once,” Harry admitted. “It was really loud and Ginny drank way too many shots of Firewhisky. I ended up spending the night holding her hair while she vomited.”

Hermione made a face. “Well, forget about that. We don’t need to get pissed. I just think that a couple of drinks and dancing could be fun.”

While the drinks sounded nice, dancing had never been Harry’s thing. Ever since that damn Yule Ball, he had tried to avoid it as best as he could. But Hermione was giving him a look that could make a centaur give up its deepest secrets.

He groaned. “Fine. You win. Let’s go out.”

Hermione grinned and sat up. “Fantastic. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Clubs should be getting busy right about now.”

Harry took one look at his grey sweatpants and crumb-covered t-shirt and sighed. He had just gotten comfortable—and Merlin only knew that his loungewear wasn’t club worthy.

Twenty minutes later found Harry stepping out of his bedroom dressed in dark jeans, a freshly pressed white t-shirt, and an old bomber jacket he had dug out of Sirius’ wardrobe in Grimmauld Place several years prior. He had tried to tame his hair as best as he could, but as usual, it was no use. It wasn’t exactly a fancy outfit, but it wasn’t like he was trying to impress anyone. Besides, they wouldn't turn him from the door, he was the-boy-who-lived, after all.

Padding across the hallway, he knocked on Hermione’s door. “You ready yet?”

Through the wood, he heard a groan of frustration.

“You all right?” he called.

No response.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob, giving the door a little push. He took a step into the room, peering in. “Hermione?” he whispered.

“What?” came her voice from around the corner. In the closet.

“Erm, I’m just checking to see if you’re ready to go.”

“Nearly there.” There was a pause and another frustrated noise. “Actually,” she said after a moment, “Can you help me with something?”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry answered casually before he stepped into the room entirely.

She should have warned him, so he could have braced himself. Or prepared. Or _something_.

There, standing right in front of him was Hermione’s bare back. And not just around the shoulders. Oh, no. The dress she was wearing—deep blue and dangerously short—had practically no fabric in the back at all. Harry could see both her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine in its near entirety. The only bit of skin covered was about half a hand’s width above her arse, which he definitely, definitely wasn’t allowed to look at.

“What, erm—” he cleared his throat. “What did you want me to help you with?”

“Can you help me put this necklace on? I can’t quite get the clasp.”

She lifted her arm to reveal a single pearl hanging by a gold chain. Simple, but elegant. Very Hermione.

“Yeah, sure.”

As Harry took a step forward to close the distance between them, he lifted his hands to grab the necklace. Suddenly, Harry found his hands to be very sweaty. He had to wipe them on his trousers before taking the delicate thing between his fingers. When he had grasped it, Hermione swept her honey-coloured curls to one side, baring the nape of her neck to him.

Harry wasn’t sure why his throat had gone so dry—was the temperature in her room much hotter than the rest of the flat?

With one end of the necklace in each hand, he looped it over Hermione’s head before bringing the clasp together. It was an easy enough task. But when his focus widened and he found himself standing only an inch or so away from Hermione’s back, his body parallel to hers, nothing about this moment seemed easy.

He suddenly found himself wanting to bring his lips to her skin, to taste her. Would she be as sweet as she looked? She could probably feel his breath on the back of her neck. Did she like it?

These thoughts piled up as he towered over her, able to take in the shape of her body that he had, until recently ignored entirely. Her breasts, her arse, hell, even the two freckles near her left shoulder blade. He saw it all.

And in that moment, it hit him like a bludger to the head.

His best friend was completely gorgeous.

Lost in his thoughts, he and Hermione lingered in that position perhaps a bit longer than necessary. When Harry finally managed to gather himself, he practically sprang back.

“Got it,” he said quickly, adjusting his jeans.

Hermione looked at him over her shoulder. She had already done her makeup. Though, admittedly, Harry knew exactly nothing about the stuff, he couldn’t help but notice that it looked excellent on her. “Fantastic. I just need to grab a bag and I’ll be ready.”

They ended up Apparating to an alleyway near their destination in Soho. Harry watched as Hermione carefully smoothed her dress before they emerged from the alley to join the line to get into their club. A Muggle one, as it turned out.

“Would you prefer to be at a Wizarding club?” Hermione asked as they stood at least fifteen groups back in the queue. “If you were, they’d definitely let you in the VIP entrance.”

Harry chuckled. “Hermione, you know as well as I do that I would much prefer to be anonymous, thank you very much.”

Hermione conceded as she wrapped her arms around her middle and rubbed them. “Well that’s all well and good, but I could use a VIP entrance. I’m freezing!”

Harry had quite forgotten that his best friend was wearing only a tiny dress without any sort of coat or cardigan.

“Here,” he said gently. “Take my jacket.”

“Sirius’s?” Hermione said, raising her eyebrows. “I couldn’t.”

Harry scoffed. “It’s not like I’m giving it to you. I just don’t need to spend the next two days feeding you pepper-up.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out. “Har-har. Fork it over, then.”

“I can’t let you freeze,” said Harry as he shrugged the jacket off. “Besides, Sirius would want me to treat a lady with the highest respect.”

Hermione snorted. “Please tell me you haven’t taken advice on how to treat women from Sirius as an absolute.”

Harry feigned offense. “And what if I did?”

“Please.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “You saw that little record book he kept of all the notches on his bedpost. We both did when we cleaned out Grimmauld.”

“Hermione, you are the_ furthest _thing from a notch in a bedpost.”

Harry blurted the words before he could stop to consider what he was saying. He watched as they sank in and Hermione blushed all the way up her cheeks, even in the November chill.

They fell into a slightly awkward silence. Harry tried to think of something to say that might help him backtrack, but everything he came up with sounded stupid in his head. After a bit, they had moved to the front of the line and the bouncer opened the rope for them.

They stepped through the door and walked down a set of neon-lit stairs until they reached the bar, which sat beside the open dance floor. Colourful lights flickered and the pounding of the music in their ears. The club was filled with patrons, some sitting and talking around the edges and many moving their bodies to the beat of the pulsing music in the center of the room. It was much hotter down here than outside, and he noticed Hermione shimmy out of Sirius’ bomber jacket. Taking it from her, he stopped off at the coat-check to drop it off.

“Come on,” Hermione half-yelled over the music. “Let’s get a drink.”

They made their way over to the bar and Harry paid for two Gin and Tonics. As they waited for the bartender to fix them, Harry watched as Hermione bobbed her head to the beat of the song. He smiled to himself. If he could go back and time and tell serious, studious fourteen year-old Hermione that in just ten years’ time, she’d be gagging to go dancing at a club, she’d have whacked him over the head with _Hogwarts, A History_.

But looking at her now, she definitely deserved to let loose and have fun. And perhaps he did as well.

They got their drinks and sipped them on the edge of the dance floor. Neither of them spoke much with the music being so loud. But that didn’t bother Harry in the slightest. If he had been in a club like this with any other woman, he would be sweating and wracking his brain constantly for something cool or funny to say. But this was Hermione. And as confused as his dick was about her at the moment, she was first and foremost his best friend. The thought drew a smile to his lips.

When they had each drank a full tumbler and three-quarters of another, the music suddenly changed, the thumping base cranked up.

“Oooh, I love this song!” Hermione cried. “Let’s dance, please!” She stuck her bottom lip out at him and fake-pouted.

Harry wasn’t sure he had ever heard this particular song before. He had no idea where Hermione would have heard it, either. He also had no idea what kind of music it was. But Hermione’s grin was contagious, and he found he just couldn’t say no. Who was he to deny her?

So that’s how he found himself crushed against Hermione in the center of the dance floor. The music really wasn’t his thing, but the Gin and Tonics were starting to flow through his veins and he soon found he didn’t care. All that his brain was able to focus on was the witch in front of him.

Hermione was clearly enjoying herself. The grin on her face was nothing short of dazzling, and the way she undulated to the music was hypnotising. Her body seemed to push and pull against him, and without realising it, he began to move with her. His hips were doing things he wasn’t aware that they could, and hers were moving right along with him. Harry could feel her breasts brushing against his chest and her pelvis pushed dangerously close to his thigh.

He found he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All that mattered was feeling more. More of Hermione.

Telling himself that it was the alcohol removing his inhibitions, Harry placed his hands experimentally on her waist. The result was immediate. Hermione drew herself closer, pressing her body flush against his. He could feel every curve. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and in this very moment he didn’t care about boundaries or being flatmates. All he wanted to do was put his hands on her. All of her. And good Godric, he wanted her hands on him.

As if she could read his mind, Hermione reached up and placed her hands against his chest. Through his t-shirt, he could feel the pads of her fingers tracing his hard-earned muscles. Harry knew he could lose himself in this feeling very easily.

Their faces were close… so close… Harry could feel his breath mingling with hers. It sent electricity all through his body knowing that if he leaned just an inch further, he could claim her lips.

All the blood in his body began to rush south. The gentle pressure from Hermione’s body against his was so tantalising, so mouthwatering that he felt himself slowly losing grip on his control—or what little remained. Between Hermione’s wandering hands, and the drinks he’d consumed, he was forced to confront the thought he had been fighting all day.

There was no doubt about it now. He wanted Hermione. Wanted to kiss her. Wanted to have her in his bed again and again. Wanted to see those curls spread across his pillowcase as she writhed underneath him.

The thought jarred him out of his alcohol-induced haze, and he felt like he was looking down at his best friend through fresh eyes.

He wanted her. He wanted her so thoroughly and so completely that he almost forgot to breathe.

And then she looked up at him. Her chocolate eyes were burning, smoldering. Her lips were parted slightly, and if he didn’t know any better, he might have mistaken the look for desire.

Panic flooded him.

“I… I have to use the loo,” he choked out.

Disappointment flashed across her features, and she let him slip from her grasp. “Right. Okay. Be back soon.”

Harry nodded and ducked away. Without the heat of Hermione touching him, the club suddenly felt cold. He dodged couples as he moved across the dance floor and managed to find the bathroom, tucked away in a corner.

Once inside, he gripped the sink after splashing water on his face.

“Get a grip, Potter,” he said to his reflection, gritting his teeth. “This is Hermione, mate. Your best friend. You’ve managed to ignore her tits and arse for thirteen years. You can keep ignoring them.”

He splashed water on his face again.

There was no way that Hermione wanted him in the way he did in that moment. _No way_. Hermione was just having a good time—just letting loose for a bit. Hermione was a good friend. Yes, she sometimes walked around their flat without trousers, but that was just because she was so comfortable around him. She wasn’t trying to seduce him or anything. They were just friends—best friends. He repeated this to himself like a mantra.

There was no way.

With one more splash for good measure, Harry ran his hands through his hair and exhaled before making his way back to the dance floor.

He’d keep it cool this time. Keep his distance. He didn’t have to press her body against his for them to dance. Things couldn’t get out of hand. He wouldn’t let them. Hermione was the perfect flatmate, and he wanted to keep it that way. He wanted to keep the flatmate who drank beer with him at the end of a long day and didn’t complain about watching an absurd number of movies.

And yet…

He shook his head. _No_. He had to be firm.

_Oh, you’re firm all right, _that same voice in his head spoke.

Harry groaned as he approached the dance floor, wishing that damn voice would just stop already. He scanned the area for Hermione, finally identifying her by the smooth, bare skin of her back.

Except now she wasn’t alone.

Apparently another bloke had moved in while he was trying to gather his wits in the loo. The man was swaying back and forth in front of her, clearly trying to flirt. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy either. In fact, he was intimidatingly fit—if Harry were to notice that sort of thing, which he definitely didn’t...

_Shite. _

Harry had run away and now this wanker was taking his place. That just wouldn’t do.

White hot jealousy poured into his veins, filling him all the way from his fingertips to his toes. Clenching his fists, he pushed his way across the crowded dance floor to where Hermione and this stupid bloke stood.

“Excuse me,” Harry spat, speaking in a tone he had never heard escape his mouth before. “But what do you think you’re doing?”

“Chatting up this tasty bird, of course,” The idiot answered with a cheeky grin. “You got a problem with that, mate?”

The anger in his blood turned fiery. He itched to grab his wand and hex this guy into a pile of goo, but Hermione would probably kill him if he used magic in front of Muggles. Also, the paperwork at the Ministry really wouldn’t be worth it.

Instead, Harry poured all his fury into a venomous smirk strangely akin to one he’d seen his blond haired rival wear countless times. “Do I have a problem with it?” His tone was sharp, born of both sarcasm and fury. His lips curled upward and he caught a glance of Hermione’s face. She was looking at him in a way she never had before. This time, though, there was no doubt what she wanted. Harry’s stomach clenched when he realised that his attraction was not one sided. She wanted him too. Her gaze was pure electricity. In that instant, Harry stood taller, his insides flipping with anticipation of what he’d hoped would come.

He knew his path forward. Arguing with this bloke would get him nowhere. No, Harry was a man of action. After all, he was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he?

Without uttering another word, Harry moved in front the flirtatious stranger, right to Hermione. He hooked his right arm around her waist and searched her eyes for a half second. Harry could feel her exhale sweetly as she parted her lips.

He pressed his lips eagerly to hers in a searing kiss. It was neither a sweet kiss, nor an innocent one. Instead, it was full and needy, as though all of their thirteen-year friendship had led to this exact moment.

Hermione’s reaction was instantaneous. She curled into him, every inch of her body pressed deliciously against his. Each nerve in his body lit up as his instincts took over. Without asking—without warning, his hands moved down and he gripped her arse, pulling her closer.

She responded in kind, her hands grasping at his shirt with desperation. Hermione’s lips moved in tandem with his. The feel of them was dizzying; it felt surreal, kissing his best friend with the heavy bass of the music buzzing in the background.

The bloke must have left by now, because the two of them didn’t even bother to come up for air. It was like some sort of dam had been broken, and years of pent-up attraction were finally spilling free.

Had he only noticed her attractiveness today? It couldn’t be. Surely, he had seen her beauty before now. Had he known that snogging Hermione was this electric— that their connection was so magnetic, he would have done this years ago.

Harry wasn’t sure how they ended up pushed against the back wall of the club. He wasn’t sure how he was still standing or why they were still in the club at all. The only thing he was aware of was the feel of Hermione’s core pressed against his erection. He could practically feel the heat through that scrap of clothing she called a dress.

Harry ground himself into her and she responded in kind. Breaking his lips away from hers for the first time, he began to trail kisses down her jawbone until he reached her pulsepoint. She moaned into his ear, his name spilling from her lips like a prayer.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Hermione, I need us to get out of here. _Now_.”

Flushed, Hermione nodded wordlessly, as if entranced just as much as he was.

Harry gripped Hermione by the arm and charged over to the coat check.

Grabbing a couple random bills from his wallet, he tossed them on the counter as the employee fetched his jacket. Once received, he draped it over Hermione’s shoulders, before he laced his fingers through hers. He pulled them deep into the alcove by the bathroom and once he confirmed no one was watching, Harry pulled out his wand and Apparated them away.

They landed on the front stoop of their flat. The cold rush of air immediately surrounded them, and he watched as Hermione pulled the jacket close. Harry’s hand shook as he performed the necessary wand movements to let them through the wards.

“Easy,” Hermione whispered through swollen lips. “Take your time.”

He shook as he finished the final jabbing movement with his wand. Her encouragment felt like torture, a reminder of what would happen once they were inside. The front door opened and Harry ushered them inside. The moment the door swung closed behind them, Hermione pounced on him.

She practically jumped in his arms, pressing her lips to his once again. Her tongue slid along his lower lip, begging for access. Harry eagerly complied, and once again, he found himself completely entranced by the feeling of her mouth on his and the taste of her kiss.

But it seemed that Hermione needed more that just a lust laden snog, because before he could so much as think of his next move, she guided his hand onto her breast.

Her breasts were larger—heavier than what he was accustomed to. He flexed his fingers around the supple flesh, relishing in the fullness of them in his palm. His previous experience with women was limited to Ginny, who had been lean and athletic from as far back as he could remember. His ex had small mounds on her chest, and while he had grown used to them, the feeling of Hermione's womanly curves was almost as intoxicating as her kiss. As he kneaded her breast, he could feel her nipples strain through the thin material of her dress, and he ached to put one in his mouth—dying to see if her skin tasted as sweet as her mouth.

Their snogging and touching continued without them moving from the wall by the front door. Harry began to wonder if they would even make it to the bedroom or if they would end up shagging right then and there.

The bedroom. Wait—they were home. They had separate bedrooms!

They were flatmates. _Best friends_.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

Harry pulled himself away, his chest heaving with the effort. Hermione’s eyes were wide and searching and they stared at each other for a minute.

“Harry, why—?”

“What are we doing, Hermione?” he breathed. “I just… what the hell is going on?”

Harry watched as Hermione’s expression crumbled. _Shite_. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “No, erm, shite. Hermione, that’s not what I meant. I meant… fuck.” Harry ran his hands through his messy hair. Why was he stumbling over his words so much? This was just Hermione.

But this wasn’t _just_ Hermione, was it? This was Hermione Granger, his best friend—the most important person in his life. If they were going to cross this unspoken line, then he had to know. He had to know what she was thinking. He had to know she wanted this too. Because Merlin knew, he couldn’t read women’s minds.

“Look,” he said, starting again. “You’re my best friend, and whatever_ this_ is, I’m really enjoying it, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want it to ruin what we have.”

The silence stretched between them felt endless as he waited for a reply—any sort of indication that she wanted _this_ and it wouldn’t ruin what they already had.

And then Hermione spoke.

“Harry Potter, you fucking prat.”

Harry blanched. “What?”

“You have no idea, do you?”

Harry’s mind drew a blank. His eyes darted back and forth as he tried in vain to perform Legilimancy, despite never having practiced the magic before. Nothing. He shook his head slightly, worry tightening in his chest.

Hermione’s shoulders moved slightly as she held back a laugh. “You really are clueless, aren’t you Harry?”

Harry scoffed. “Okay, _I get it_. I have a rock for brains and I am clearly the most unobservant bloke out there. Now, will you please tell me what the hell it is that I’m supposed to have known?”

Hermione furrowed her brows, a smile dancing on her lips. “I fancy you, you idiot.”

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting her to say, but that admission was certainly not it.

He opened and closed his mouth once..twice. “Erm, you… you what?”

“I. Fancy. You,” she repeated. “I have for months now. I can’t believe you never noticed. Truthfully I suppose I’ve always had feelings for you in a way. But only recently they’ve become more… carnal.”

Harry blinked.

Hermione was absolutely right. He really did have rocks for brains. How had he not noticed? Months of late nights cuddles on the couch—of extended hugs and long glances—popped into his brain like fireworks, one after another until it was all all the missed signs blurred together into one long memory.

“Oh,” he managed, his blinking growing more rapidly by the second. “Oh!”

“Yeah. _Oh_.” Hermione settled her hands on hips. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever notice me.”

“Hermione, I—” Harry licked his lips, trying to choose his words very carefully. “I think you’re...I think you’re bloody fit—the most beautiful witch in the world..”

It was Hermione’s turn to lick her lips. “You do?”

Harry could stand in their entryway and tell her how amazing she was. He could spend hours confessing his attraction to her—tell her just how bloody fit she was, how he wanted to feel every inch of her skin. He could tell her that he suspected he had hidden feelings for her for years as well, but that didn’t feel right.

Words would never be able to properly express how he felt for her.

They could talk later. They shared a flat. So hell, they could talk forever if she bloody well wanted, but right now, he only had one goal in mind.

He had this one chance to show her how he felt for the first time. To make an impression, and he wasn’t going to waste it like he had the years shared between them.

So instead of speaking, Harry took a step forward, backing Hermione into the wall. The closer he drew, the quicker Hermione’s breathing seemed to get. Reached out he took ahold of her wrist, and guided her hand down his torso, until she was cupping his erection.

“This is exactly how gorgeous I find you.”

Hermione let out a little whimper.

“Do you want me to show you how bloody gorgeous I think you are?”

Harry wasn’t sure where his confidence was coming from. By all accounts, he should be shaking in his boots. Ginny was his first and only. Granted, sex with Ginny had been good—very good, if he did say so himself, but this felt different. He didn’t want to muck it up.

But this was Hermione, he reasoned. If there was anyone he could figure this out with, it was her. That, and the way she was looking at him was enough to fill him with the sort of primal confidence to rival any Gryffindor.

Hermione nodded. “Show me,” she whispered, pressing her hand into his manhood firmly.

“Then you’d better run quickly, because I’m going to beat you upstairs to the bedroom.” Harry winked and took off toward the stairs.

“Oi!” Hermione called, hot on his heels. “No fair!”

They scrambled across the foyer and through the sitting room until they reached the stairs.

“Which bedroom?” she called from behind him.

“Mine—it’s closer.,” he answered, eager to get his hands back on her body.

He had barely thrown the door open and let the two of them in before his lips were on hers. Guiding her back to the bed, his hands ran up and down her shoulders, savoring the way her skin felt underneath his fingertips.

As she slipped the thin straps of her dress down her body, Harry watched with heart-thudding anticipation. The dress fell away and Harry drank her in.

Gorgeous wasn’t a good enough word to describe his best friend. He was in love with her body. She stood bared before him, and unlike what he might have expected, she didn’t cower or attempt to cover herself up. Instead, she let him look at her—all of her,without flinching.

“Hermione,” Harry whispered. “You—I—_fuck_.”

“Do you want me?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Really want me?”

“So fucking much.”

“I want you.” she took a bold step forward so that he could reach out and touch her. “I want all of you, Harry Potter.”

“Then have me,” growled Harry, taking his own step toward her.

Hermione’s hands didn’t fumble as she tugged his belt through the loops or as she pulled his shirt over his head. She ran her hands down his chest and settled at his hips, where she quickly rid him of his trousers and boxer briefs, leaving him completely exposed. But like Hermione, he didn’t want to cover up. He didn’t want to feel awkward. How could he with Hermione’s hand wrapped around him like that?

Harry tilted his head back at the feel of her fingers on him. He could feel his tip poking the soft flesh of her thighs. His breath fluttered as she brought her lips to his.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her mouth as his hips began to move of their own accord. “Hermione…”

“Say my name,” Hermione commanded, flipping them so it was her walking them backward to the bed. “I want to hear it.”

“Hermione,” he groaned, leaning back on the mattress. Harry reached out, his fingers brushing across the soft curls that sat at the apex of her thighs, wanting to make her feel as good as she was making him, but she swatted his hand away.

If Hermione kept going, there was no way he way he was going to last. After six months of nothing but his hand, there was no bloody way he was going to come before her..

Using the muscle and skill he had gained from years as an Auror, Harry carefully flipped the two of them without warning. It was Hermione who was pressed into the bed now, her curls spread under her. Like a vision come true, the sight of her splayed across his mattress sent a jolt of lust through coursing through him.

Hermione had fancied him for months, but like an idiot, he had only just figured out how bloody gorgeous she was. It seemed he had a lot to make up for. Without taking his eyes off of hers, Harry trailed his lips down her neck, stopping to pay homage to her lovely breasts before settling his head between her thighs.

“Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he responded quickly. “I want to make you feel good.”

Harry dove in, running his tongue up her slit before pressing it between her folds to delicately sweep at her little nub.

Hermione writhed beneath him, her moans high-pitched and breathy. “Oh, Oh! Harry!” she cried as his tongue swirled with more and more pressure. He reached up with his right hand to grab her breast, squeezing it. The feel of it in his hand only egged him on more, and he buried his face further into her. With each movement of his, she canted her hips in time with his tongue.

Casting a furtive glance upward, what he saw almost made him stop. _Almost_.

Hermione was lying with her head resting on his pillow. Her hands were twisted in the sheets, clutching them as though her life depended on it. But it wasn’t her hands or her heaving breasts. that really drew his attention. 

It was her face. So flushed and filled with pleasure that pushed him onward. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shut tight. Her kiss swollen lips were parted, and from her tongue the sexiest little noises he had ever heard filled the room.

Harry doubled his efforts. He moved his hands to rest on the sides of her thighs. Hermione reached down and carded her fingers through his hair before settling her hands over his. She squeezed his hands as her hips rocked faster and faster until she let out a strangled cry.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Harry pulled his face away from her pussy and rested his chin just above the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs.

Hermione seemed to be in a sort of daze. Her eyes were still closed, and her chest was heaving with each breath she took.

In that moment, Harry was sure he had never seen a witch so beautiful. How he’d only ever seen her as a friend was absolutely absurd. How had he been so blind? How had he let Ron have her for all of these years? And moreover, how had the daft wanker gone and cheated on her?

A streak of possessiveness struck Harry as he crawled up her body and crushed his lips to hers. He didn’t bother to wipe his mouth off, but Hermione didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed even more fervent than before as she pulled his body closer.

By now, he could feel his erection grinding into the wetness between her thighs. If he were to push forward even an inch, he could be inside of her, feeling her tight heat around him.

It would change everything.

Harry looked to Hermione. She opened her hazy eyes and nodded her head. “Please.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing the tip of his member right to her entrance. Bracing himself above her, Harry thrust forward.

At once, a wave of pleasure rushed over him. And something else as well. Relief? Like Hermione was meant for him, and he had been waiting his whole life just to feel her—all of her.

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, so he allowed his body to do the talking instead. Harry drew his hips back and rocked them forward again. Hermione moaned.

“Oh god, Harry,” she cried, seemingly unable to get anything articulate out.

Harry tried to be sweet and sensitive, to make love to her, but the animalistic side of his brain just wouldn’t let him. He had to have her, and have her hard. Harry’s hips sped up until he was fucking her properly into the mattress.

He leaned his forehead onto her shoulder as he moved, the feel of her skin on his keeping him grounded as the sensation of her tight, wet pussy drove him closer and closer towards orgasm. Hermione was clutching him, the pads of her fingers pressed deeply into the muscles of his back. In that moment, she was his whole world. His beginning and his end. His best friend. His lover. His everything.

Harry’s hips moved faster and faster as pleasure mounted in his lower abdomen. Hermione seemed to feel it too. Her back arched into him, her mouth hanging open once more with little whimpers escaping her.

It was suddenly all too much. His pleasure peaked, and Harry came with a shout, spilling his seed deep into her. His hips continued to thrust forward several times before they finally stilled. He collapsed onto her, peppering her throat with open mouthed kisses.

“So perfect, Hermione,” he muttered into her salty, sweet skin. “If I’d known...If I wasn’t so bloody dense, I’d have done this years ago.”

“I’ve always known you were meant for me...” Hermione whispered into his sweaty mop of hair. “But you were my best friend, and I didn’t want to cross that line. Until I started living with you.”

Harry rolled off of Hermione and crawled up the mattress so he could take her into his arms.

“What made you want to finally do something?” he asked, tracing his finger around the soft skin of her nipple.

“Honestly?” she turned to face him, “I could only stand to see you wandering about in your underwear so much before I went ‘round the bend. You’ve ruined more of my knickers than you know.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, unsure of what to say. He cleared his throat. “So all those baths you drew me and those breakfasts you brought me in bed…?”

“Purely selfish.”

“You perv!” Harry shoved her shoulder playfully. “Why not just pounce on me? I wouldn’t have minded.”

Hermione shook her head. “But you would have. What we just did crossed a major line in our friendship—I was terrified that I would scare you off and then I’d be all alone.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Harry reconciled. “I am happy to report that I loved every second of what we just did. And hey, we broke out of our rut, didn’t we?”

Hermione snorted. “I’d say so.”

“We’ll never be able to just lie about and watch movies all evening, will we?” Harry mused after a minute, still dragging his finger across her chest.

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re so bloody gorgeous that I won’t be able to make it through an entire movie without shagging you.”

Hermione didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so Harry made sure she didn’t feel the need to respond. He covered her lips with his, intent on having her at least one more time before the night was over.

~*~*~*~

When Harry awoke in his bed the next morning, he blearily fumbled for his glasses as usual. Sunday morning. Normally on Sundays, he and Hermione made pancakes. The thought made his stomach grumble.

_Hermione…_

“Hermione??” Harry shot up in bed, his hands feeling around for his best friend. Last he could remember, the two of them had fallen into a naked, pleasure-induced slumber sometime around three. But now Hermione was nowhere to be found.

His stomach began to sink. Maybe he had been wrong about this whole thing. Maybe he had interpreted the situation incorrectly. Had Hermione run away this morning, ashamed of what they had done? Panic rose in his throat.

“Harry!” Hermione called from downstairs. “Do you want waffles or pancakes this morning?”

Just as quickly as it had come on, the panic faded. Instead, he breathed a sigh of relief and turned to bury his head in his pillow—her pillow. Her flowery scent still lingered there and he inhaled deeply.

After years of existing within the boundaries of friendship, he and Hermione had broken free last night.

There would be no more separate beds. No more awkward conversations with their friends and acquaintances about what they were.

Harry knew. He might not be able to fully describe it with words yet. But underneath, between the two of them, he knew exactly what Hermione was to him.

Everything.

“Let’s have waffles!” he called down the stairs, a boyish playfulness coloring his tone as he pulled back the covers and began to reach for his trunks. “We need to break out of this ridiculous pancake rut we’re in.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my first attempt at a Harmony fic ever! Let me know how I did please! Who knows what sort of ships I might feel keen to explore in the future?


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